


Undertow

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> There's a brilliant, thin line in his mind, sharp, like the soft sigh of skin unfurling beneath scalpel, severing his thoughts.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Undertow

He sits. Waits. Is calm.

The illusion remains untouched.

He can feel it, in his mind. Something immense and fevered, something unfurling, spreading like the slow curl of blood in water. A sigh, a long exhale of poison tainting his mind, oil sick slick surface. Polluted. Rank.

There's a brilliant, thin line in his mind, sharp, like the soft sigh of skin unfurling beneath scalpel, severing his thoughts. On either side, it remains the same; madness, mindlessness, to be turned over into an object of no worth, unable to fulfill his pledges. There's no breath for him here, only a deceptive stillness. There are things, waiting to rise and consume him, should he glance to the left. Should he glance to the right. Should he lose his focus for one moment.

He raises his hands from where they rest, lightly, on his thighs. Raises them, palm down, and watches as they do not shake. He can feel it, feel how unsteady they are, feel the tremor under the skin, like something is crawling around, seeking an exit. Will make its own, soon enough, if he doesn't kill it. Kill the host.

Vicious, bitter, there is a want within him that whispers of ease. Of calm. Of white, hollow spaces he can wander, never feel the touch of these brittle shards again. It's a harsh, painful sound - there's no need for it to tempt him with sweetness; he is already tempted enough.

It would be hard to let go.

The door opens, closes, behind him, and there is a touch on the back of his neck. Two fingers, pressed to his skin and chilled enough to shock his skin. He feels as though the space between those fingers has become an open keyhole, can very nearly feel the blood sliding down his back, thick and dark, rotted.

He smiles, knowing it is too wide and too hungry and too discomforting, and wonders if Henry can see the thing wearing his soul, blood and muscle and skin stretched too tight across it. If Henry realizes what will come pouring out in place of blood, breath, tears.

If he cares.

He turns his hands, palms upward, to receive the first blow, and they do not shake anywhere but in his mind.


End file.
